


Patience

by MUSEquera



Category: Muse
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 20:51:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2164776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MUSEquera/pseuds/MUSEquera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>First, an apology: I haven't been around here for ages, in fact I have been away from social media for months now, and I've lost touch with most of you. I hope to be more present from now on, but it's a work in progress.</p><p>Second: This is part one of a two-part short story. Writing is coming in dribs and drabs at the moment, so I'm not sure when I'll update. Sorry to leave you hanging.</p><p>Third: As I was writing this, the chorus of a Serrat song kept playing round and round in my head, so I've added the lyrics at the beginning of the fic, with a link to a YouTube clip of a beautiful performance from 1994, almost 20 years after I heard it for the first time.</p><p><span>Ay, mi amor,</span><br/>Sin tí no entiendo el despertar,<br/>Ay, mi amor,<br/>Sin tí mi cama es ancha,<br/>Ay, mi amor,<br/>Que me desvela la verdad,<br/>Entre tú y yo, la soledad<br/>Y un manojillo de escarcha.</p><p>(Joan Manuel Serrat, <a href="http://youtu.be/fuAKenLRV3E">Romance de Curro El Palmo</a>)</p><p> </p><p>For those of you who are Spanish-challenged, the translation is under the cut. <a id="cutid1" name="cutid1"></a>Ah, my love<br/>Without you I can't make sense of waking up<br/>Ah, my love<br/>Without you my bed is too wide<br/>Ah, my love<br/>The truth keeps me awake<br/>Between you and me, loneliness<br/>And a handful of frost<a id="cutid1-end" name="cutid1-end"></a></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <a id="cutid2" name="cutid2"></a></p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First, an apology: I haven't been around here for ages, in fact I have been away from social media for months now, and I've lost touch with most of you. I hope to be more present from now on, but it's a work in progress.
> 
> Second: This is part one of a two-part short story. Writing is coming in dribs and drabs at the moment, so I'm not sure when I'll update. Sorry to leave you hanging.
> 
> Third: As I was writing this, the chorus of a Serrat song kept playing round and round in my head, so I've added the lyrics at the beginning of the fic, with a link to a YouTube clip of a beautiful performance from 1994, almost 20 years after I heard it for the first time.
> 
> Ay, mi amor,  
> Sin tí no entiendo el despertar,  
> Ay, mi amor,  
> Sin tí mi cama es ancha,  
> Ay, mi amor,  
> Que me desvela la verdad,  
> Entre tú y yo, la soledad  
> Y un manojillo de escarcha.
> 
> (Joan Manuel Serrat, [Romance de Curro El Palmo](http://youtu.be/fuAKenLRV3E))
> 
>  
> 
> For those of you who are Spanish-challenged, the translation is under the cut. Ah, my love  
> Without you I can't make sense of waking up  
> Ah, my love  
> Without you my bed is too wide  
> Ah, my love  
> The truth keeps me awake  
> Between you and me, loneliness  
> And a handful of frost
> 
>  
> 
>  

"What's that?" I jump three feet up in the air, my hand hastily, and guiltily, going back back inside my pocket. "Nothing." I answer, and turn around to face him, trying to school my features into something within spitting distance of 'normal'.

He sits next to me and wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close, "Oh, come on, mate, you're going to have to do better than that. You look guilty as all get out." His hand squeezes my shoulder to emphasise his point, and I suppress a shiver and try a smile on for size, "I was fiddling with my keys, daydreaming, you know? You startled me, is all."

I get one of his 'bitch, please!' looks, but he doesn't press me, for which I'm grateful, and I allow myself to relax against him as he takes a swig out of my mug. "Ugh! It's cold!" he says, and spits the mouthful of tea back into the mug, making me giggle, "Gross!" That earns me a flick of his finger to the top of my ear, "Not funny, you twat, it was disgusting."

I'd hoped he'd been put off the trail, but the man is like a terrier with a bone. Putting the mug down on the table with a scrunched nose, he folds his leg under him and turns slightly to face me. "What's up with you? You've been acting weird for a while." Bugger. He knows me way too well.

My fingers nervously rub the worn edges of the object in my pocket like the talisman it has become, following the contours of the raised edges at one end, feeling its slightly rough texture. Usually, its touch soothes me, but this time I'm too keyed up, and magical thinking just doesn't help. I can't go on like this. It's time for action, yet I am paralysed by fear.

Let me explain. I'm 25, single, and sharing an apartment with my best mate–yes, the terrier-like one. "So what?" you may well say, "nothing particularly special about that." Oh, have I forgotten to mention that I'm openly gay and quietly and forlornly in love with terrier boy? Who, by the way, plays both sides of the track with dedication and relish, but has never shown the least bit of interest in me. Not that way, anyhow.

We went to school together, went to the same university—art for him, biology for me—and now we share this rather snazzy apartment in the most wonderful city in the world. Our friends tease us constantly. "Joined at the hip." "Partners in crime." "Two bodies, one brain.” And it's true. We are closer than brothers, we finish one another's sentences, and, although we are fairly social, we enjoy one another's company best. I'd gladly die for him, and I know without a doubt that he'd do the same for me.

But...

Yeah... But!

I've loved him all my life, one way or another, but about three months ago, during one of our frequent visits to the little seaside town where we grew up, I came to the sudden, stupefying, terrifying, and rather painful, realisation that I was in love with him.

It all started quite innocently. A nice drive along B roads, enjoying the sunshine and the lovely views, chatting away companionably without a care in the world, a long weekend of beach, family and old friends ahead of us.

Family duties taken care of, we met our oldest and best friends, and that's how it all went to hell in a hand basket. You see, when we all get together, things tend to get a bit out of hand, especially if there is booze involved (which is a given, really) or other… shall we say... more exotic substances.

This particular time, 'shrooms somehow made an appearance halfway through the evening, and those of you who know us are aware of our—yeah, ok, my—weakness when it comes to this particular form of... recreation.

So… old friends, booze and 'shrooms. A recipe for disaster, really. Feeling the worse for wear, the others eventually slunk homewards to their significant others, most likely to tight silence and frowns of disapproval at their dishevelled state, for which we were, no doubt, shamelessly blamed. We were, after all, the dissolute confirmed bachelors in our social group.

Anyhow…

It was inevitable that we would end up under the pier in the wee hours, stumbling to find refuge from the sudden, fierce summer rainstorm, high as kites and not knowing which way was up.

The pier.

It had been our port in a storm since we were barely into our teens. Home away from home. The backdrop to our most memorable drunk and disorderlies. We gravitated to it whenever we needed comfort, or wanted to celebrate, and it had been witness to both monumental fights and teary pleas for forgiveness.

It was a constant in our lives, and this time it provided refuge as we huddled, soaked to the skin and shivering with the abrupt temperature drop, my head resting on his shoulder and his arm around my waist, a habit developed back when we were young enough that physical contact was not an issue.

We sat there, watching the curtains of rain drive in from the Channel, silver against the black churning cauldron of the sea, and eventually our combined body heat overcame the chill, and I could feel the warmth of his skin seep along the seam of contact between us, familiar and comforting.

Sometimes, the psychedelic trip brings about an odd clarity, a higher level of consciousness, if you will, and everything feels as sharp as cut glass, all five senses transcending their barriers, allowing you to perceive the world around you in as yet undiscovered, unimagined ways. Our shared warmth seemed to trigger that transcendent clarity, and I was overwhelmed by my awareness of him.

I could taste the essence of him through my skin, chypre and amber, butterscotch and warm earth. I could scent his thoughts, sharp and rich, the finest sandalwood. I was surrounded by the sound our hearts beating in sync, his a steady bass shining like burnished bronze, mine a flutter of copper wings. I saw the the golden glory of his soul, felt the velvet-sheathed steel of his character, tasted the bittersweet edges of his smile.

And in that moment of clarity I became aware of the fact that I loved him. Not as a brother, friend and partner in crime—well, yes, like that too, but that was business as usual. No. This was different. I loved him as the other half of my soul.

I could see my love for him, flowing out from the centre of my chest and surrounding him like an aura, pulsing bright red and darkest black edged with silver. I raised a tentative hand towards it, and pulled it back at the burning heat of it. "So, this is what love looks like." I thought, inconsequentially, staring in wonder at this new facet of my feelings for him. No, not new, I realised. It had been there all along, buried deep, hidden from view by the bright, comforting glow of our enduring friendship.

My love life stood exposed for the fraud it was in the stark light of this revelation. Prowling the club scene, secure in the knowledge that I could snag any guy I wanted with just one look, yielding a long string of casual hook-ups that never lasted more than a few weeks, One of them, who had lasted longer than the rest, had told me before he left me, pity a bleakness in his eyes, "You go through the motions, love, but your heart is closed."

I'd paid no attention at the time, drifting from lover to lover happy to play the field, no strings attached. Now I understood. My heart wasn't in it because it had already been given away. To the man sitting next to me. I needed no emotional attachments because... I stiffened with the shock of sudden self-awareness. How could I have been so blind?

"You ok?" His lips, brushing softly against my temple as he spoke, burnt me like a brand, sending tendrils of ice through my veins. Shivering, I shook my head, burying my face in his shoulder, letting his familiar scent anchor me to a reality I was afraid to confront. A reality in which I was in love with my best friend. His arm tightened around me in unconditional comfort that required no explanation, pulling me close against the soothing beat of his heart.

We stayed like that for a long time, just being, wrapping the night around us like a cloak, watching the storm die away. I was gently shaken awake as the first pale sliver of light gilded the thin line between the black of the sea and the deeper black of the night sky. "Come on, sleepy head," he said with an indulgent smile, and I realised I'd been dozing, "shift your skinny arse, let's go home."

Yawning and rubbing sleep out of my eyes, I let him pull me up, and nearly fell back down on my arse at the shock of his touch. Butterflies took flight in my stomach, every hair on my body standing on end. "What's wrong?" he asked, concern in his voice, his knuckles leaving streaks of fire on the skin of my cheek, "You've gone a nasty shade of green." And for the first time since I'd known him, I lied to him, "I'm ok, just a bit of a hangover. I'll be ok once I get some food into me."

"Come on, then," he said, his arm wrapping protectively around my shoulders once again, "time to face the world. Let's go find some breakfast." Keenly aware of every inch of contact between our bodies, I numbly allowed myself to be pulled along up the concrete steps that led up to the promenade. We were about to cross the road when I had a sudden need of a physical marker of this moment in time.

"Hang on a sec." I blurted out, ducking under his arm and running back down the steps to the beach below. I looked around me in a wild, desperate search, and suddenly I saw it on the water's edge, right under the pier. An oval pebble, the rough size of my palm, the deep port wine colour of the cliffs, standing in stark contrast to the lighter sand in the weak dawn light. I picked it up, feeling its rough sandstone texture, one end slightly flattened by the thin seam of quartz running across it.

I closed my fist around it, a symbol, and a promise to myself. Shoving it in my pocket, I ran back up the stairs, out of breath, to find him waiting patiently, his arched eyebrow a silent query. "My keys fell out of my pocket. I went to look for them." I lied again, dangling my key ring as proof.

And I have been lying to him—and to myself—ever since, by word and omission. Picking up random strangers who hold no interest to me anymore. Dying inside every time that he spends the night away in someone else's bed. Trying to act normal when his casual touches set my body on fire. Pretending that nothing's changed when nothing is really the same at all, while I try to sum up the courage to speak up. And today, now, I am going to deliver on the promise I made to myself on that beach. Today, now, is the day I do speak up and tell him how I feel.

I take my hand out of my pocket and turn to face him, and I don't know what he sees in my face, but his expression softens, concern in eyes the colour of Channel storm clouds. "I..." I croak, my mouth dry with fear. I take a deep breath, but I can't do this while I look at him, so I focus instead on a loose thread on my jeans, "I think..." I shake my head, disgusted with myself, "No. There's no 'I think' about it." Making myself look at him, I blurt out, before I lose my nerve, "I'm in love with you."

Brilliant. Well done, man. Handled like a pro. Every last vestige of courage vanishes the moment those words leave my mouth, and I wonder whether there is any way I can rewind the last five minutes. In the silence that follows my stumbling declaration, I watch my trembling fingers frantically trying to unravel the fabric of my jeans as if it were the most fascinating sight in the whole world.

 


	2. Chapter 2

“I’m in love with you”

The words drop like stones in the sudden silence, and I struggle to swallow against the huge lump that is threatening to choke me. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. The soft fabric of my tee feels like a noose around my neck, and my hand crawls up to grasp it, trying to find relief.

Bad move. The movement has caught his eye, and now he’s looking at me. No. I can’t let him see me like this. I let go of the fabric and look down, letting the feathery ends of my fringe fall across my face and hide me from view. Breathe. You can do it. Breathe. Deep, slow breaths. You can do this.

His hand suddenly covers mine, gentle, tentative, my name a question on his lips. I can’t. I can’t look at him. Tears I am unable to contain trace a scalding path down my cheeks, and I watch in fascinated horror as one of them splashes on the back of his hand with a muted plop.

For a moment everything goes still, as if time had been suspended, and then he whirls into action. He kneels on the sofa, his hand leaving mine in a blur of movement to cup my cheek, gently but firmly pulling my head up so he can look at me. His eyes search my face, and widen in shock at what he sees. I can feel my face crumbling——feel myself crumbling.

Suddenly I find myself held against his chest while I sob uncontrollably, his arms tight around me in an awkward hug, his cheek resting on my head as he mumbles a stumbling string of incoherent apologies into my hair. That's what snaps me out of it. Why is he apologising to me?

I scramble back out of his embrace until my back is against the sofa's armrest, wrapping my arms tight around my legs, while he looks at me with frightened eyes. "I'm sorry." he says again, almost soundlessly, and flops dejectedly against the other end of the sofa, facing me, the expanse of red cushion between us like a moat.

Years flash in front of my eyes. 

Our first day at pre-school, the tiny knobbly kneed kid making a beeline towards me, announcing earnestly, "You're my best friend, now." Just like that. 

The bashful teenager who dragged me under the pier to blurt out he liked boys, worried I'd be grossed out; the relief on his face when I said I liked boys too; the predictable puzzlement that followed, "But you go out with girls!"; his surprise and the immediate onslaught of questions when I told him I liked both. 

The drunken escapade not too much later when he demanded I teach him 'how to kiss a bloke', disregarding my protests until he got his own way——just as he always did when it came to me.

Long forgotten nights in our shared dorm room, sitting on the windowsill smoking pot, listening to his ramblings on genetics and ecology and marine biology, and his madcap speculations on exobiology and space travel——most of it way over my head, but I listened all the same, fascinated by the glimpses they provided into the workings of his incredible brain. Keeping an eye out to stop the clumsy little bugger from losing his balance with his wild gesticulations and falling to his death.

Our graduation day, the way he smiled at me as he received his diploma, his eyes shining as if lit from within; leaping out from from the stage towards me as I waited in line for my name to be called, secure in the knowledge that I would catch him, unmindful and uncaring of the disapproving stares from faculty and parents.

The adventure of finding an apartment; scouring the city's markets and tat shops for shabby chic furnishings, making a home; the excitement of getting jobs, being adults——allegedly. 

Years of confidences, of experiences shared. Of the kind of friendship only the lucky few get to experience.

And through it all, almost a lifetime, I loved him. From that first day when he informed I was his best friend, I loved him. Like a brother first, but gradually, inexorably, I fell in love with him. Silently. Hopelessly. Desperately. 

I considered telling him, oh, so many times, but every time I backed out. I knew him. Better than I knew myself. I knew he didn't see me that way——so what would have been the point? It would only have made things awkward. He would have felt guilty that he didn't feel the same way, and I couldn't stand the thought of him walking on eggshells around me. 

So I made do. Don't get me wrong, I didn't pine away like a wall flower. I enjoyed his company and his friendship, his unconditional love——yes, he has always loved me, albeit not with the kind of love I wanted from him——his madcap personality, his loyalty. And I had my coping mechanisms. Booze. The odd foray into chemically-enhanced happiness. Pretty young things...

Yes, I made do. I adapted. I knew that the endless parade of 'boyfriends' didn't matter, that none of them meant a thing. That I was the one with a claim on his heart. And that was enough for me.

The last few weeks I noticed a change in him, though—restless, secretive, distant. It scared me spitless. I thought maybe he'd found someone——no, not another 'boyfriend'——someone who mattered. I've been trying to gather the courage to ask what was going on with him, and finally, today, I did.

Well, I guess I got my answer.

Hearing those words, words I'd resigned myself never to hear from him, broke something inside me. Was this the reason for his strange behaviour the last few weeks? How could I have been so dense? I could smack myself. In my defence, though, I did read the signs correctly, but boy, did I interpret them wrong! I just never imagined that he'd finally come to love me as more than his best friend.

And now I'm afraid that I've made a right mess of the whole thing. Because he's looking at me as if I've broken his heart and then stomped on the pieces. Which, given my stupidly hysterical reaction to his declaration of love, is hardly surprising.

Knowing him, he's come to the completely wrong conclusion and he's now beating himself up for a fool and feeling guilty for having upset me. He looks ready to bolt, and I know that, unless I do something, fast, to sort out this mess I've created, I may lose him forever.

Letting go of my tight grip on my legs I sit up, cross-legged, and furiously wipe the tears off my face. "Come here." My soft command makes him wince, but he obeys——in his own inimitable fashion. Untangling his skinny legs and almost going tits over in the process, he manages to kneel on the sofa once more, and knee-walks across, like the little kid he is at heart, to sit on his heels in front of me.

The look on his face is a study in stoic fear. He's bracing himself for rejection, the soft daft love, and I doubt that words will reach him, so I settle for action. I pull myself up to my knees and, cupping his face in my hands, I kiss him.

He stiffens with a sharp intake of breath, and for a moment I'm afraid he'll push me away. I open my eyes to startled blue and we hang, poised on the cusp of possibility, for what seems like an eternity. A strangled sound breaks the stand-off, his lips softening against mine, his exhaled breath sweet on my tongue, and then he clings to me like a frightened child awakening from a nightmare, kissing me until my toes curl inside my sneakers. 

He's learnt a thing or two since that awkward kissing lesson under the pier, I think fondly, smiling into his kiss. I pull slightly back, to reassure myself that this is happening, that he is right here in front of me, kissing me like I've never been kissed before, and he makes a soft mewling sound of protest that reminds me of my baby nephew when the empty bottle is taken away from him. 

That makes me smile again, and I brush his lips with mine in reassurance, "Shhhh, I'm not going anywhere, I just want to look at you." Predictably, he buries his face in the crook of my neck, innate shyness reasserting itself—he's a walking chimera; so self-assured, yet so full of insecurities—and it takes a few moments of gentle persuasion to pry him out of his refuge. 

When he finally looks at me, he takes my breath away. He's flushing to the tips of his ears, thin lips kiss-swollen, eyes so dark that I can't tell where the pupil ends and the iris starts, and for a wild moment I want to lay him down on the sofa, cover his body with mine and lose myself in him, a cherished fantasy made reality at long last. 

No. I give myself a mental slap. No. This is not a fantasy. This is real. And I'll be damned if I let my hormones get in the way of it.

Instead, I allow myself the luxury of looking at him at my leisure without worrying about being found out. I let my eyes caress his face, his neck, the hollow at the juncture of neck and collarbone. And, for a wonder, he allows it without squirming in embarrassment, holding himself still, hardly breathing, steady eyes watching me through the the screen of impossibly long dark lashes.

His eyes widen as I reach to trace my thumb across his cheekbone, and I can feel a smile tugging at my lips, spreading slowly across my face, an incredulous joy that won't be contained. His answering smile is tentative at first, but suddenly it widens into the glory that is his unfettered crooked grin, all dimpled cheeks, and crinkled nose, and eyes that sparkle like star sapphires, and I may be forgiven for forgetting my own injunction to take things slowly, and kissing him until we are both breathless.

My lungs screaming for air bring me back to my senses, and I break the kiss, gently untangling myself from an embrace that had come dangerously close to the point of no return. Placing a finger across his pout before he has a chance to protest, I sit back down on the sofa and, taking his hand, I pat the cushion next to me, "Stop pouting at me, come and sit down for a moment."

He allows himself to be pulled down, and accepts the familiar invitation of my arm across the back of the sofa to curl against my side. I crane my neck to look at him and wipe silky dark hair away from his eyes, "Not that I'm complaining, but care to elaborate?" He narrows his eyes at me, always quick to take offence, and for a moment I'm afraid the mercurial little sod will think I'm taking the piss and storm off.

To my relief, however, he deigns to answer, his voice uncharacteristically subdued, his fingers worrying at the hem of my tee, and I have to strain to hear his halting words. "I... I don't know. It came out of nowhere." He ventures a look at me out of the corner of his eye, and, going back to his steady unravelling of a £100 shirt, continues rather cryptically, "At first I thought it was just the 'shrooms, but it wouldn't go away." 

Another sideways look and, seeing the puzzlement written all over my face, he goes on with a frustrated little sigh, "That night under the pier? Last time we went home?" The lightbulb goes on, and I nod for him to go on. "One moment you were you," he says, eyes firmly back on the damage he's inflicting on my tee, "the next moment I looked at you and it was..." he shakes his head, "Dunno... Felt... You felt different, all of a sudden." 

Pausing for a moment, his hands flutter up as if grasping for meaning, and then, tilting his head, his eyes on mine, takes my hand and places it on his chest, "You felt... More. Here." I can feel his heart fluttering like a startled bird under my palm, but his voice is steady as he goes on, "You took my breath away, and I... I wanted to tell you, but I was scared, so I put it off, tried to pretend nothing had changed." Letting go of my hand, he flops back, closing his eyes, "I don't think I've been doing a very good job of acting normal, though."

I pull him closer, smiling into his soft, soft hair, "Nope. I thought you were acting weird——well... weirder than usual, I should say." He pinches my side, "Twat!" and I lightly smack the back of his head in retaliation, "Freak!" The lightning fast, familiar exchange of affectionate insults seems to clear the air, and he smiles impishly at me, "Your turn."

Oh, bloody hell! Trust him to turn the tables on me! Ok, fair is fair. "I've loved you——for my sins..." A poke to my ribs, and a huffy "Hey!" cut me off. I grab his wrists, "Do you want me to tell you or not?" He nods, giving me his wide-eyed 'butter wouldn't melt' look, "Well, shush, then." I admonish, pulling him back against me, and waiting patiently while he wriggles about until he finds a comfortable position, his head on my shoulder, before I go on. 

"Right, where was I?" I ask rhetorically, and rather stupidly—it's an opening he can't help walking through. "You were in the middle of a very rude declaration of love for yours truly." he says, with a twatty grin. I quirk my eyebrow at him, "Mmmm... You know what? On second thought, I don't even like you."

I make to get up, but he gets hold of my tee and pulls me back, and I end up sprawled half-on, half-off the sofa, with the little monkey smiling down at me, "Yeah, you do. Now tell." With a sigh, I rearrange myself until I'm lying against the back of the sofa, leaving enough room for him, and, with a contented little grunt, he stretches alongside me.

Ok, here goes nothing.

"Remember that time you got it into your head that I had to teach you how to kiss a bloke?" He giggles, "Yeah. I was a pest, wasn't I?" 'Was'? I think to myself, but I nod and let it go to the keeper. "I wasn't able to sleep for weeks after. You got under my skin. I thought it was just a silly crush, but..." He props himself up on his elbow, "But that was ten years ago..." He stops in his tracks, staring at me, and as I stare back I can see comprehension seep into his eyes until they are as big as saucers. 

"Oh." It's not so much a word as a startled exhalation of breath. "I... I didn't..." In a swift move he's sitting up, his head in his hands, "Oh, god!" He turns haunted eyes to mine, "How? All this time?" I swivel to sit next to him, kissing his temple, "Yes." He slumps against me, boneless, "And I never knew. You were right there all those years and I never knew? What kind of a friend am I?" Here it is, I think as my heart shrivels in my chest. The guilt that I would have spared him. 

I wrap my arms around him, rocking him gently, my lips brushing his skin as I speak, "Don't fret, love. I made sure you didn't know. I was very careful." He looks at me, incomprehension in his eyes. "I knew you didn't love me that way, and I didn't want to burden you with it." His lips part but, before he can voice his objections, I silence him with a kiss. 

He kisses me back fiercely, as if he wants to make up for all those years of not knowing with that kiss. And I let him, because I know that he needs to sublimate the pain of his guilt. And because being kissed by him feels so right that I can feel the prickle of tears behind my closed eyelids.

He finally lets go of my lips and rests his forehead against mine, panting harshly, his hands still cupping my face. "You should have told me." he whispers, "You should have told me." I place my hands over his, and say, keeping my voice gentle and steady, "I chose not to tell you. I chose to be your friend. And it's a choice I will never regret."


	3. Chapter 3

I blink at his words. He has a way of saying just the right thing at the right time, his calm, steady voice stopping my emotional outbursts out cold. I take a deep breath, trying to make sense of ten years of silent, patient, selfless love. Trying not to think about what it says about me that I never knew until today. 

Trying very hard—without a great deal of success—not to think about the way I carelessly screwed my way through half the male population of the city right under his nose. I know from recent personal experience what that sort of thing does to your heart.

God, I'm the luckiest, most self involved, oblivious bastard on this earth. 

A light pull on my hair, "Hey, where did you go?" I look up to find him smiling indulgently down at me—he's had plenty of experience with my mental wanderings—but there's a tinge of concern in his voice. I shake my head, "I just can't get my head around it." I close my fist on a handful of his tee, "How could you stand it?"

He looks away, his mouth tightening almost imperceptibly at the corners, fingers playing idly with the longish hair at the nape of my neck, "It was not always easy, but the alternative was worse." His eyes seek mine, then, and there is a light in them that sends shivers down my spine. "I love you." His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, before he continues, "The thought of you not being in my life hurt. Physically." his free hand closes around mine, just above his heart.

Our eyes lock in the silence that follows while I process his words, wondering how I could possibly hope to ever deserve such love. His lips quirk in a little smile, "The first day I met you, you co-opted me as your best friend. I eventually came to the conclusion that being your best friend was a pretty good gig. And anyway," his smile widens to his crooked grin, "someone had to keep an eye on you, save you from your own clumsiness."

I know he's trying to distract me, and for once I don't raise to the bait he's so carefully laid in front of me. He does tend to protect me from myself—my tendency to dwell on things, to overthink, to overreact. "Thank you," I say, trying to keep my voice steady, "for sticking around." His response is the lazy smile that has been weakening the knees of males and females alike since high school, as he leans in to whisper "You're welcome." against my lips.

My body is consumed by liquid heat at the unmistakable burr of barely contained desire in his voice, and my lips open of their own accord under his, my mouth pliant in surrender. His hand closes possessively on the back of my neck, bringing me closer, and even as I melt under his touch I wonder at my eager acceptance of his understated dominance.

Whether I top or bottom, I'm the one who's always in control, never allowing my partners the privilege of my surrender. This time is different. Because it's him. Because there's a lifetime of trust between us. Because he knows me, my faults, my weaknesses, every vulnerability, just as I know his, revealed gradually over years of friendship, in an equal exchange of confidences that neither of us will ever betray.

It should be awkward, this—this coming together in desire that turns my veins into rivers of fire as his mouth explores mine with worshipful intensity, but my body knows him, my response to his touch instinctive, as welcome as it is overwhelming. 

I cling to him, the intimacy of the kiss not enough to sate my need, and his hands tighten on me in response, even as his lips slant off mine, skimming the line of my jaw to the sensitive spot just below my ear. My eyes roll back at the onslaught of sensation triggered by the light caress, the soft, uneven puffs of my breath loud in my ears.

"Is this ok?" he asks—always the responsible one, looking out for me, never taking anything for granted—despite my obvious approval of his attentions. I smile at his quiet grace, a warm wave of affection breaking through the pleasure that fogs my brain. Turning my head, I seek his lips with mine, whispering, "Very ok."

He searches my face with eyes like molten lead, his hand pushing a wayward strand of hair behind my ear, "Are you sure? I don't want to rush you, I... I don't want any awkwardness between us. Promise me you'll tell me if we are going too fast." I know better than to argue, the stubborn sod would never touch me again if he thought it might harm me. "I promise." I say, and his eyes widen in surprise at my meek acquiescence. 

"But." a sardonic quirk of his eyebrow greets the qualifier, but he allows me to go on, "There is nothing—nothing—you and I could do together that would make me feel awkward." I take his hand, a hand that I know better than my own, and bring it to my face, leaning into his palm, closing my eyes for a moment and just feeling. "As for rushing me," I continue, letting him see the naked hunger in my eyes, "don't you think you've waited long enough?" 

The words are barely out of my mouth when he pulls me to him with a sound that comes suspiciously close to a sob, and, fisting his hands in the fabric of my tee, on my hair, rains kisses on any part of me that his lips can reach. 

When he finally lets me go my cheeks are wet with his tears, yet his smile could eclipse a thousand suns. Without another word, he gets up, his hand extended in silent invitation, dark temptation in his eyes, and I take the offered hand without hesitation, letting him draw me out of the living room towards the hallway.

He stops there, looking around with a puzzled little frown. "What's wrong?" I ask, taking the single step that brings me flush with his body, and he turns towards me with a sheepish expression on his face, his lower lip caught between his teeth. The slightest of pauses, and then he deadpans, "Your place or mine?"

A single blink, and then we're both giggling like the dorky teenagers we still are at heart, clutching at one another to avoid falling over in a heap, eventually slipping slowly down to the floor, still entangled and cackling with laughter. 

He recovers first, pulling himself up to to sit back against the bathroom door, and dragging me up, still weakly giggling, from my boneless sprawl across his legs. "Come on, help me out here, you giggly little loon, I'm loosing feeling in my legs." Eventually, he manages to get me to a sitting position, tucked under his arm, and slowly, deliberately, proceeds to kiss the giggles away. 

"Better?" he beams at me, and I shake my head, a bit short of breath, laughter still bubbling under the surface, "Your place or mine? Really?" He gives me his cute as all hell one-shoulder shrug, "In my defence, it was a genuine question. When we got here I realised we had a choice of bedroom." Twatty grin, "It seemed appropriate." 

Ok, that cuts right through any vestigial laughter. And brings the focus right back to the fact that we were actually on our way to bed. One bed. As in... Oh, god, we were on our way to bed! 

All of a sudden I feel as bashful and nervous as a fifteen year old virgin. What if, after all this time, when it comes to the crunch I disappoint him? What if this is the worst idea ever and it tears us apart? What if... What if... What if... My fertile imagination comes up with a multitude of dire scenarios, one after the other, and I cling to him, shivering in sheer panic. 

"What's wrong?" he asks softly, his hand stroking my back. "What if...?" I stop, unable to go on, but he knows me, and knows exactly where my stupid brain has taken me. "Hey," he says, tucking a finger under my chin so I look at him, "do you think you're the only one who is scared here?" That gets my attention. "This is a leap of faith, for both of us."

I take a breath, but he lets go of my chin and puts his finger up, "Ah, ah, ah! Not done yet." Smiling at my pout, he goes on, "Yes, it may end up being the biggest mistake of our lives, but I think we have an advantage over most couples..." I mouth the word 'couple' as if I've never heard it before, and there's laughter and warmth in his eyes as he kisses the tip of my nose, "Yes. Couples."

Before I can get a word in, he goes on smoothly, "We have seen one another at our best and our worst, we already know that we are ok living in the same space and, best of all, we know that a fight is not the end, that we can forgive and forget and move on. Because we have a lifetime of friendship behind us, of love, and trust, and understanding." 

His arm tightens around me, "It is a leap of faith," he says again, his voice softer, deeper, "but I'm ready to take it, if you are.’’ He presses his forehead to mine, whispering against my lips “Will you leap off the ledge with me?" I gape at him for a moment, overwhelmed by his words, and then I'm nodding like a bobblehead, because I know if I try to speak I’ll start blubbing like an idiot. 

Not my best idea ever, because I end up headbutting him. Instead of smacking the back of my head, though, as he would have done at any other time, he kisses the breath out of me, muttering, “God, I love you, you hopeless klutz!” Before I have time to catch my breath, he pulls me up with him, pressing my back against the wall and caging me with his body. His eyes smoulder as he leans in, “You never answered my question.” he says, his voice a silken purr.

Call me stupid, but having the length of his body pressed against me doesn’t do much for my powers of reasoning, so I may be forgiven for the vacant look I offer in response, “Huh?” He laughs, a deep, rich laugh that makes my body hum with need, and noses his way, ever so slowly, from my collarbone to my temple before whispering in my ear, “Your bed or mine?”


	4. Chapter 4

I guess it was never really a choice, given the usual state of his bedroom, the kindest possible word for it being 'messy'. So when, with a smile so beautiful it hurts, he says, "Yours." I steer us unsteadily the few steps to my door, holding him tight against me with my arm around his waist, while he makes good use of the time by nibbling daintily at my earlobe. Which does not help much with the steering thing. Or the staying upright thing. Or the breathing thing.

I stop with my hand on the doorknob, uncertain all of a sudden, "Part of me wants to wait, take this slowly," I whisper into his hair, "take you out on a date, buy you flowers, go to see a romantic film, stealing kisses in the dark." Smiling, he stands on tiptoe, bracing his hands on my shoulders, so we are eye to eye, "Part of me wants that too..." he says, pausing to brush his lips teasingly across mine, and his eyes sparkle with the irreverent light that I love to see in them, as he delivers the punch line, "who says we can't do both?"

Ok, that settles it. The evil little sod knows exactly what buttons to push to get what he wants, and it would appear that what he wants right now is me. And since I want him with with a deep yearning that will not be denied, who am I to argue? "Ok." True to form, he takes over, his hand batting mine off the doorknob to open the door, and pulls me through, kicking the door closed once I'm inside the room.

To my surprise, despite the hunger in his eyes, he lets go of me, walking to stand at the foot of the bed, facing me. Rooted to the spot, my mouth dry with need, I watch as he slowly pulls his tee over his head, the bunched fabric dropped carelessly to the floor as he lets his arms fall to his sides, allowing me to drink in the sight of him. 

His eyes are dark and steady under licks of hair made spiky by the tee's removal, but his outward calm is belied by little 'tells', the pulsing of a vein at his temple, the almost imperceptible nervous twitching of his fingers, the way he's lightly biting the inside of his lower lip. 

I want to hold him in my arms, feel his skin under my hands, but I won't devalue his gift by rushing him, so I rein myself in, and caress him with my eyes. His body is as familiar to me as my own, and still my heart skips a beat as I look at him, knowing that he's putting himself on display for me despite his innate shyness. 

My eyes snag on the glory of his neck, on small nipples almost the exact size and colour as tarnished twopence coins, on the dark temptation of the trail of dark hair between his navel and the waist of his jeans. Familiar, yes, but also new, and I swallow hard when I think about the shared journey of discovery ahead of us.

His hands move slowly to undo the button of his jeans, and my self-restrain breaks. Before I'm conscious of my brain's command to move, I'm kneeling in front of him, my hands on his, my eyes pleading, "Please, let me." With a slight nod, he lets his hands fall back to his sides and watches me with eyes that show just a thin slice of blue around the black of his pupils, as I unzip his jeans with unsteady fingers.

That's as far as I get. There's a buzzing in my ears, and I'm dimly aware that I'm hyperventilating like a boss. I brace one arm on the edge of the bed, and rest my forehead against his hip, trying to steady my breathing, and then his fingers are combing through my hair in a slow, soothing rhythm, his voice a soft command, "Stay with me, love. Breathe."

His voice anchors me, and, sitting back on my heels, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. He kneels down in front of me, one of his legs between mine, bringing him as close as is humanly possible without actually straddling me. His fingers slip off my hair and caress their way down my face to hold my chin up while he scans my face. "I'm ok," I say, "just a bit dizzy." I can see his concern chased away by his trademark twatty grin, "It must be my animal magnetism." 

I try to control the laughter bubbling up at his cheek, without much success, "God, you're the most annoying creature in the whole universe." I say, resting my forehead against his. His stupid giggle lifts the last of the panic, "Yeah, but you still love me." and I sigh, conceding the point, "And a good thing, too, or you'd have been smothered in your sleep a long time ago."

Pulling back, he cups my face in his hands, kissing me lightly, "Are you really ok?" I nod, his touch, his kiss, the deep care in his voice steadying me. "Yes." My eyes seek his as I try to explain, not really making much sense, "Seeing you like that, knowing you were mine to look at, to touch... It was a hopeless dream for so long, I..." 

His lips silence me, and I know he understands. Nothing else matters. Without releasing my lips, his hands move to the hem of my tee to flatten on my skin under the fabric, slowly pushing it up, in a slow caress that pebbles my arms with goosebumps, until it's bunched under my arms. "Up." he breathes against my lips. 

Obediently, I lift my arms, letting him pull the tee over my head, and he flicks it aside to join his on the floor. "You look like a dandelion puff." he says, his crooked smile making an appearance, as his fingers tame my flyaway hair with gentle strokes, and I smile back at him, this creature of light and dark who owns my soul. 

We are so close, I can feel the warmth of his body, and desire is a hollow ache inside me as I place my hand on his chest. His sharp intake of breath is all the encouragement I need, my other hand following suit, both of them reverently gliding over skin that is softer than the finest silk. I caress the flat of his chest, feeling the prominent ridges of his ribcage, his wiry muscles, the rapid beat of his heart under my fingers, my thumbs brushing over his nipples.

I look up to see that his eyes are closed, head thrown back exposing the graceful arch of his throat, his lower lip caught between his teeth. I run my thumbs experimentally over his nipples again, and I'm rewarded with the most beautiful sound, half way between moan and purr, so low that I can feel it in my bones, rather than hear it. 

I want to spend a lifetime learning all the sounds of his pleasure, discovering the delights of his body. I want... I want the taste of his skin on my tongue. Without conscious thought, my lips are closing on his nipple, and he arches into me as I flick my tongue against the rapidly tightening bud of flesh, his moan a physical caress. 

The clean, salty taste of sweat, underlain by the dark musk of his arousal and the familiar hint of cedarwood that is his skin, fills my senses, my head swimming, overwhelmed by sensory overload. It is not enough, though. It will never be enough. His hands hold me to him, demanding more, and I'm happy to oblige, his pleasure a compulsion in my blood.

Following my instincts, I suck, using the flat of my tongue on him to draw long, slow pulls, my cock hardening painfully as he bucks against my thigh, whimpering his encouragement. Riding the wave of his pleasure, I use my teeth on his sensitised flesh, biting lightly on the now pebble-hard nub, pulling until his hands fist in my hair and he screams my name.

Letting go, my lips trace a path to his neck, follow the corded muscle up to the corner of his jaw, brushing over the light bite of barely there stubble to kiss the corner of his mouth, and back along his jaw to bury my face in his neck, breathing him in.

I pull him to me, and my heartbeat falters as he moves to straddle me, rocking into me with slow deliberation, until I am close to shattering. Sensing my unravelling, he slows to a gradual stop, soothing me with soft hands and soft words, my forehead nestled on his shoulder, until I'm breathing easy again and then, with a light kiss to the top of my head and a murmured, 'come' takes my hand and gets up, gently pulling me along with him until we are facing one another. 

"I need you." I whisper breathlessly, the words both a plea and a question. Without a word, he lets go of my hand, hooking his fingers through the belt loops of his jeans, and his faint smile is an invitation to sin as he proceeds to finish the job I've left undone, getting out of the rest of his clothing with oddly graceful, economical movements, heavy lidded eyes never leaving mine, and I follow his movements in stunned silence, my jaw aching with my effort to remain still. 

When he's done, he kicks the clothes aside to join our tees in an untidy pile, and comes to stand in front of me again, taking my hands and placing them on his hips. He then wraps his arms loosely around my neck and steps in, not a breath of air between us, his skin like a brand on mine, his cock a hard outline against the inside of my thigh. His lips curve into a smile as they brush my ear, a single word cutting through the pulsing rush of my blood, his straightforward answer to my oblique question, "Yes." 

My hands fly up to frame his face, and I swoop in to kiss him fiercely, taking possession of his mouth, drawing his breath into my lungs until nothing else exists, just him, my lifeline and my downfall. "I love you." I whisper, letting go of his lips to kiss his forehead, his closed eyes, the tip of his nose, his lightly stubbled chin, smiling at the slight roughness under my lips 

His eyes open lazily when I release him, but the look in them is anything but lazy. They smoulder, shimmering black pools edged with impossible blue, "And I love you." he says, his voice hitting the bottom of his low register, dark and sensuous, "More than I thought it was possible to love another human being."

His words, his voice, his skin under my hands, they are like a drug, and I wonder if my need for him will ever be slackened, but in the same instant I realise that, as long as there is blood pumping through my veins, I'll always always hunger for him with a deep seated need that seems to be coded into my cells. 

I caress him with shaking hands, long, leisurely strokes down the nape of his neck and farther over the ridges of his spine, and he arches like a cat at my touch. I follow the curve of his waist, and smile as my fingers play lightly over the love handles that, much to his disgust, never disappear, no matter how skinny he gets. "Not a word." he growls, but there's laughter in his voice, and he nips playfully along my jawline until I move on.

My hands trace the sharp outline of his hips as they glide towards the sweet curves of his arse, lingering on warm lean muscle covered in velvet-soft skin, and then lower, following their contours as they merge, to whisper over his crease, his whimper against my skin so filled with need that I almost forget myself. But that would not do, I've waited too long for this to rush us.

Slowly, reluctantly, I retrace my steps to his hips, my thumbs caressing the impossibly soft skin along their dip. "Turn around." I say, my voice rough and harsh with desire, kissing a line from his collarbone to the bony tip of his shoulder to soften the command to a plea. 

He turns in my arms without argument, allowing me to pull him back, my right hand splayed on his belly pressing him tight against my body. Giving in to an unashamedly possessive urge, I close my left hand on his throat, and he melts into me, soft and pliable, resting his head back on my shoulder as my teeth graze the exposed skin of his neck, my cock pulsing painfully with need at the way he purrs deep in his throat. 

"Keep doing that, and I'll lose the last thread of self restraint I'm holding on to." I growl, and damn me if he doesn't purr again, the bloody man constitutionally unable to let a challenge slide by. I bite down on his neck, "Behave, you imp." I can't see his face, but I'd bet my left nut that, having gotten a raise out of me, he is now sporting his insufferable self-satisfied smirk, the one that puts me in mind of a cat with fluffy yellow feathers sticking to its whiskers. 

I know I was dead on when he giggles, and I'm torn between throwing him bodily on the bed to have my wicked way with him, self restraint be damned, and giving in to the laughter bubbling up in my chest at his front and his irrepressible spirit. 

In the end it really isn't much of a contest, I think to myself with a mental head shake. Muttering, "It's a good thing I love you, you mad pixie!" I hug him tight against me, muffling my own giggles against the silk of his skin, my heart expanding in my chest with love for this man who has the rare gift of being able to find laughter in unexpected places, annoying as it may sometimes be. 

"You quite done?" I ask once I'm back in control, my hands gripping his hips, trying to make my voice stern, but it's a lost cause, and the little bugger knows it—he's had me wrapped around his little finger since that first day in the school playground. Undaunted, he wriggles his arse against me, "Not even started." He then turns his head, eyes crinkled with his grin at my moan, saying, "Are you planning on taking those jeans off any time soon?"

Swearing a blue storm, I let go of the twatty little bugger and tear at my belt with clumsy hands, while he goes to sit back propped on his elbows at the end of the bed, watching me intently with an infuriating half smile as I curse my way through my struggle to extricate myself out of the tightest pair of skinnies I own.

Finally free, I step out of the pile of rumpled fabric at my feet, and his eyes widen as I stalk over to him to straddle his legs and, placing a hand on his chest, push until he lets go and falls back flat on the bed. "Move up." I growl, the words ground between my teeth, the raw edge of desire stripping away the last shreds of control. 

Knowing he's pushed me too far, he meekly slides up the bed until his head is resting on the pillow, and watches silently as I crawl up his body, my nose skimming his skin, his warm scent stoking the fires of my arousal. Giving in to my need for him, I cover his body with mine, bracing myself on my elbows, both of us crying out at the electric jolt as our groins connect skin to skin for the first time, and my eyes close, rolling back in their sockets at the searing, perfect pleasure of it.

His hands roam my back, fingers tightening on me with a strength that belies their delicate appearance, as my body starts moving of its own accord to rock into him in a slow cadence. I brace myself on my elbows and blindly seek his lips with mine, the kiss undemanding, tender, despite the raging storm of need inside me. 

Soft lips part in welcome and skinny legs cradle me, wrapping around mine to pull me closer as he starts moving under me, and the world contracts into a tight, bright bubble of blinding pleasure and overwhelming, soul-deep emotion, tears rolling slowly down my face as my love for him overflows the boundaries of my heart. 

A light touch on my cheek claims my attention, and I reluctantly let go of his lips and open my eyes, my breath catching as I look at him, pure, unfettered love shining out of his beautiful, tear-bright eyes. A shy smile tilting the corner of kiss-swollen lips, he brushes my tears with his thumbs, saying softly, “I love you. I’m sorry it took me so long to buy the clue. Thank you for being patient with me.”

My heart just about breaks at his words, but it’s ok, because he’s here, we’re here. I’m his, and he’s mine, and nothing else matters. I hold him to me and bury my face in the crook of his neck, committing to memory the way this moment feels, the light frame of his body under mine, his whispered endearments my ears, his familiar warm scent in my nostrils, his wiry arms holding me tight as if he will never let me go.

 

It feels like coming home.


End file.
